I have reworked the first part of the story with a few new elements about the characters and changed a few of the details of how the characters finish up in the shop before the policewoman makes her entrance.
This is part of the new first section is the one that involves the shopkeeper`:
This wasn’t the shopkeeper’s first hold up. In fact, over the years there had been a dozen. But only one got reported to the police, and that was only because the robber was shot and killed.
He’d taken a bullet that night, too, which, from the police point of view, made him a concerned citizen simply defending himself.
The rest had been scared off by the double-barrel shotgun he kept under the counter for just such emergencies.
The young punk who came into the shop with his girlfriend had pulled out the pistol and told him if he reached for the shotgun he’d shoot him. The kid looked unstable and he’d backed away.
When the kid collapsed, he should have gone for the shotgun, but instead, he thought he could get to the gun before the girl realized what was happened. She wasn’t an addict and clearly looked like she was only along for the ride. Her expression, when the kid pulled out the gun told him she’d known nothing about her partner’s true intentions.
But, he wasn’t fast enough, and she had the gun pointing at him before he’d got past the counter.
From one pair of unpredictable hands to another.
Like the girl, he was just as surprised when the customer burst in the door, just before closing time.
The situation might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, getting the girl to go along with the robbery being about money, but there was no denying what the kid on the floor’s problem was.
Damn.
He had to try and salvage the situation simply because there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him. He looked at the boy, on the floor, then the girl.
“Listen to me, young lady, you would be well advised to let this man go as he suggests. And, please put the gun down before someone gets hurt. Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”
The girl switched her attention back to him. “No one’s going anywhere, so just shut the hell up and let me think.”
The storekeeper glanced over at the customer.
He’d seen him come into the shop once or twice, probably lived in the neighborhood, the sort who’d make a reliable witness, either a lawyer or an accountant. Not like most of the residents just beyond the fringe of respectability.
If only he hadn’t burst into the shop when he did.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
There were so many pieces to this puzzle that most of it defied logic.
According to Quigley/O’Connell, Severin and Maury were the security guards at the lab where the USB secrets originated. Their job had been to make sure the data wasn’t stolen and failed miserably. But the inference was made that they had helped the person smuggle the data out.
At that time the data was stolen by a male scientist and put on the USB. That scientist had a wife, Anna. Sometime after the data removal, the male scientist was murdered, and Anna, his wife, got a hold of the USB.
Quigley/O’Connell also asserted that he believed Severin and Maury helped her smuggle the data out of the facility. Was it possible she was having an affair with one or the other, possibly Severin. He seemed the more potential candidate.
So fact: data is stolen, data finds its way to Anna, and Severin let her leave the complex with the data.
The next question: when did the data go up for sale, or, as Quigley/O’Connell said, become available for the newspapers to bid on? And, following that, when did Dobbin find out, and use O’Connell to arrange for the purchase and delivery of the data.
That then led to when Severin and Maury realised that Anna had double-crossed them because that would be the only reason why they would set up an oversight surveillance team to follow the man they assumed was going to buy the data from Anna.
Why was there a six-month hiatus? Was it because Anna had to stay in hiding until the ruckus about the theft blew over. Did the owners of the lab actually tell anyone what had happened? No, it seems.
So, need to find out why it took six months to seal the deal.
Next fact, Severin’s surveillance operation swings into action when O’Connell; goes to pick up the data. The date was specific because it had been on Severin’s calendar at the training facility.
The surveillance goes awry.
The café where the meeting is to take place explodes when a bomb goes off. O’Connell did not go in and was spared. Whoever was in the café was thought to be killed and the USB was lost. Later analysis of the CCTV footage at the time showed Anna rising from the ashes. She still has the USB.
But…
Everyone believed because O’Connell survived the explosion, he had obtained the USB and became the focus of their attention. And forces the continuation of the surveillance operation, when I tracked him to an alley where he was shot and killed.
Question: How did the sniper know to be at that alley for the shot?
It is at this point that O’Connell advises he is working for Dobbin. Thus, Dobbin knows about the USB and the history of it. Dobbin had arranged to meet O’Connell at that alley, and had he been killed by the sniper or not, was taking him away. Dobbin no doubt discovers at this point there is no USB in O’Connell’s hands.
Inference: Dobbin was tracking O’Connell. He had to be, to know where he was and for his squad to get there so quickly.
New Twist: O’Connell discovered something about Dobbin, and disappears, presumably to re-hook up with Anna, who is now Josephine. Dobbin employs me to find O’Connell and the USB but doesn’t say why O’Connell had gone rogue.
Assumption: Josephine/Anna kills both Severin and Maury. Why then does she torture Maury before killing him. He doesn’t have the USB or any information useful to her.
Fact: Dobbin has Jan on secondment from MI6. Why, and for what purpose. Jan is also working with Severin. Why? Dobbin says she is using initiative, but what is she after?
Supposition, did Jan kill Severin and Maury. Based on what I saw at the park when I went to see him, it looked like Jan, but when we caught her, she furiously denied the accusation. A good act or the truth?
And if it wasn’t her, then who did kill them, and then more recently O’Connell, and why?
Fact: Anna still had both the USBs and was running.
Fact: O’Connell was with Anna up to the point where he was killed. Logically it had to be Anna, not wanting to share the five million. Greed trumps common sense.
What was left out of all of this was Monica and what she knew of and was party to, along with her operative, Joanne. She had always been lurking on the fringe of my investigation, but I was beginning to think I’d been tiled by Joanne the whole time.
They were not in the room, so I had only the people in front of me to fill in the gaps.
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”
…
When the Muse Meets the Mortgage: The Unromantic Truth of My Literary Calling
We’ve all heard the romanticized tales of artists, poets, and writers – struck by inspiration, driven by an insatiable passion, toiling away in garrets for the sheer love of their craft. While there’s undeniable truth to the passion part, there’s another, often unspoken, dimension to the creative life that an ancient, surprisingly honest quote brings into sharp focus:
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”
Let’s unpack this gem, because it speaks volumes about the pragmatic, often unromantic, journey of finding one’s professional purpose, especially in the arts.
The Unseen Power of Observation
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it.” This isn’t vanity; it’s a profound self-awareness, the very bedrock of a good writer. It speaks to an innate empathy, a keen eye for detail, and an understanding of the intricate dance of human emotions, motivations, and contradictions. Before words can flow, understanding must exist. This is the writer’s superpower: to see beyond the surface, to connect dots, and to translate the universal human experience into relatable narratives.
Many of us possess this kind of observational skill to varying degrees. We notice things others miss. We’re the friends people come to for advice because we “just get it.” For some, this skill is a social asset; for others, it’s the quiet engine of a potential career.
The Litany of “Small Tasks”
“All of the small tasks of which I was capable…” This is where most of us live, isn’t it? We shuffle through life, picking up skills, trying on different hats. We might be competent at a dozen different things – organizing, problem-solving, number-crunching, designing. We can do them, often well enough. But there’s a difference between capability and calling, between competence and conviction.
This phrase beautifully captures the process of elimination. It’s the quiet concession that while we might be able to handle a variety of “small tasks,” none of them ignite that spark, none of them feel like the one. It’s a realistic appraisal of one’s diverse but perhaps diffuse talents, paving the way for the singular realization.
Literature: The Most Probable Path to “Success”
“…literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession…” This is the pivotal moment. It’s not just about what you love to do, but what you can actually succeed at. And success, in this context, isn’t necessarily about fame or fortune, but about creating a sustainable livelihood from your distinct abilities.
For our anonymous author, the ability to depict human nature wasn’t just a passion; it was a skill that, when applied to literature, offered genuine professional viability. It wasn’t a whimsical choice but a strategic one. “Properly speaking” suggests a serious commitment to the craft – not just dabbling, but mastering the tools, understanding the market (even if that market was different centuries ago), and treating it as a legitimate profession.
It challenges the modern narrative that “following your passion” is enough. Sometimes, passion needs a sturdy bridge of practicality to cross into a career.
Let’s Not Mince Words: Earning My Bread
“…and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.” This is the mic drop. The raw, beautiful, and utterly human truth. Stripped of all artistic pretense, it comes down to survival. To put food on the table. To pay the rent.
This isn’t a cynical statement; it’s an honest one. For many creatives, the initial lure of their chosen field might be passion or talent, but the sustained effort, the diligent practice, and the strategic career decisions are often fueled by the fundamental need to make a living. There’s immense dignity in earning your bread through your craft, through the very expression of your unique insights and abilities.
The Modern Resonance
This centuries-old observation still holds remarkable power today. How many of us choose our careers not just because we love them, but because through them, we are best equipped to contribute, to find a sense of purpose, and yes, to earn our living?
Perhaps your “literature” isn’t writing stories, but is:
Designing elegant user interfaces because you understand human interaction.
Building innovative software because you can conceive of efficient systems.
Teaching complex subjects because you excel at simplifying knowledge.
Crafting beautiful objects because you have an eye for form and function.
The lesson is clear: true professional fulfillment often lies at the intersection of what you’re genuinely good at, what you find meaningful, and what can realistically sustain you. It’s less about a lightning bolt of inspiration and more about a thoughtful, pragmatic assessment of your unique place in the world, and how best to earn your bread with the gifts you possess.
So, what’s your “literature”? What’s the one thing, among all the small tasks you’re capable of, that truly offers you a chance at success, and allows you to earn your bread, no mincing of words required?
The Unscheduled Genius: Why Your Best Ideas Always Arrive at the Worst Time
Ever notice how the universe, especially the creative part of it, seems to have a mischievous sense of humor? You meticulously plan your “creative time” – perhaps a tranquil morning, a dedicated hour in your study, or a quiet walk designed to invite inspiration. You set the stage, dim the lights, perhaps even put on some Ravel. And what happens? Crickets. Or worse, a sudden surge of thoughts about what you need from the grocery store.
But then, just when you’re least prepared, least expecting it, and frankly, least wanting it… bing!
The Myth of the “Planned” Muse
We try, don’t we? We attempt to “train our thoughts.” Like you, I’ve tried to cultivate that sacred shower routine, where warm water and the hum of the fan are supposed to unlock the subconscious. Or that quiet spot in the lounge, by the window, away from the digital din. It’s an idyllic vision of creative flow.
You close your eyes, drift along to classical music, patiently waiting for the imagination to kick in. You can’t force it, you know this. It’s a delicate dance, a subtle invitation. But more often than not, the muse remains stubbornly elusive, probably off having a coffee with procrastination.
Modern Life’s Cruel Interventions
And just when you do manage to carve out a moment of potential quiet, the modern world intervenes with a jarring cacophony. That quiet spot by the window? Now it’s a battleground against the relentless chime of the phone, those infuriating scam calls threatening to sever your internet, your telephone – practically every wire that comes into the house. Don’t you just hate that? It’s enough to make you disconnect everything, not just from the internet, but from society itself!
It’s ironic, isn’t it? We create these zones of peace, only for them to be invaded by the very chaos we’re trying to escape.
The “Bing!” Moment: A Master of Inconvenience
The truly infuriating part is that you weren’t even considering a new idea. You’re like me; you’ve already got so many books, so many projects “on the go” that the thought of another one feels like a mild existential threat. But the sad truth is, you have no control over it.
And then it happens.
Five minutes to three. After a frantic call announcing yet another storm in a teacup. You’re racing out the door, setting the alarm, locking the door, keys in hand, mind a whirlwind of imminent tasks and minor crises. Your focus is entirely on the next urgent thing. And then… bing.
The idea is there. Out of left field. Fully formed, shimmering in front of you, a complete narrative arc or a brilliant solution to a plot hole you hadn’t even realized existed. It’s a cruel joke of the brain, choosing the most inconvenient stage for its grand unveiling.
Embracing the Chaos (and Your Phone)
So, what’s a creative soul to do in this beautifully messy dance with inspiration? You adapt. You become a ninja of spontaneous capture. That phone, once a source of incessant distraction and scammer threats, transforms into your saving grace.
Good thing modern technology enables us to speak and drive, to solve all manner of crises and record nascent masterpieces on the go. You’re dictating plot points into your voice notes while navigating traffic, sketching characters mentally during a grocery run, or outlining an entire scene while waiting for the kettle to boil.
Perhaps the trick isn’t to force inspiration into our meticulously planned schedules, but to be ready for it when it inevitably ambushes us. The muse, it seems, thrives on the unexpected, on the edges of chaos, on the very moments when our minds are momentarily released from the rigid confines of expectation.
So next time an idea strikes while you’re battling traffic, dodging scammers, or mid-sprint to an appointment, don’t fight it. Embrace the “bing!” and know you’re not alone in this beautiful, chaotic journey.
Take that, Superman, Batman, Spiderman! We may not fly, but we can capture genius on the run. And let’s be honest, that’s a superpower all its own.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”
…
When the Muse Meets the Mortgage: The Unromantic Truth of My Literary Calling
We’ve all heard the romanticized tales of artists, poets, and writers – struck by inspiration, driven by an insatiable passion, toiling away in garrets for the sheer love of their craft. While there’s undeniable truth to the passion part, there’s another, often unspoken, dimension to the creative life that an ancient, surprisingly honest quote brings into sharp focus:
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it; in short, that all of the small tasks of which I was capable, literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.”
Let’s unpack this gem, because it speaks volumes about the pragmatic, often unromantic, journey of finding one’s professional purpose, especially in the arts.
The Unseen Power of Observation
“I knew human nature well enough to depict it.” This isn’t vanity; it’s a profound self-awareness, the very bedrock of a good writer. It speaks to an innate empathy, a keen eye for detail, and an understanding of the intricate dance of human emotions, motivations, and contradictions. Before words can flow, understanding must exist. This is the writer’s superpower: to see beyond the surface, to connect dots, and to translate the universal human experience into relatable narratives.
Many of us possess this kind of observational skill to varying degrees. We notice things others miss. We’re the friends people come to for advice because we “just get it.” For some, this skill is a social asset; for others, it’s the quiet engine of a potential career.
The Litany of “Small Tasks”
“All of the small tasks of which I was capable…” This is where most of us live, isn’t it? We shuffle through life, picking up skills, trying on different hats. We might be competent at a dozen different things – organizing, problem-solving, number-crunching, designing. We can do them, often well enough. But there’s a difference between capability and calling, between competence and conviction.
This phrase beautifully captures the process of elimination. It’s the quiet concession that while we might be able to handle a variety of “small tasks,” none of them ignite that spark, none of them feel like the one. It’s a realistic appraisal of one’s diverse but perhaps diffuse talents, paving the way for the singular realization.
Literature: The Most Probable Path to “Success”
“…literature, properly speaking, was the one that offered the most chance of success as a profession…” This is the pivotal moment. It’s not just about what you love to do, but what you can actually succeed at. And success, in this context, isn’t necessarily about fame or fortune, but about creating a sustainable livelihood from your distinct abilities.
For our anonymous author, the ability to depict human nature wasn’t just a passion; it was a skill that, when applied to literature, offered genuine professional viability. It wasn’t a whimsical choice but a strategic one. “Properly speaking” suggests a serious commitment to the craft – not just dabbling, but mastering the tools, understanding the market (even if that market was different centuries ago), and treating it as a legitimate profession.
It challenges the modern narrative that “following your passion” is enough. Sometimes, passion needs a sturdy bridge of practicality to cross into a career.
Let’s Not Mince Words: Earning My Bread
“…and – let us not mince words – was the way to earn my bread.” This is the mic drop. The raw, beautiful, and utterly human truth. Stripped of all artistic pretense, it comes down to survival. To put food on the table. To pay the rent.
This isn’t a cynical statement; it’s an honest one. For many creatives, the initial lure of their chosen field might be passion or talent, but the sustained effort, the diligent practice, and the strategic career decisions are often fueled by the fundamental need to make a living. There’s immense dignity in earning your bread through your craft, through the very expression of your unique insights and abilities.
The Modern Resonance
This centuries-old observation still holds remarkable power today. How many of us choose our careers not just because we love them, but because through them, we are best equipped to contribute, to find a sense of purpose, and yes, to earn our living?
Perhaps your “literature” isn’t writing stories, but is:
Designing elegant user interfaces because you understand human interaction.
Building innovative software because you can conceive of efficient systems.
Teaching complex subjects because you excel at simplifying knowledge.
Crafting beautiful objects because you have an eye for form and function.
The lesson is clear: true professional fulfillment often lies at the intersection of what you’re genuinely good at, what you find meaningful, and what can realistically sustain you. It’s less about a lightning bolt of inspiration and more about a thoughtful, pragmatic assessment of your unique place in the world, and how best to earn your bread with the gifts you possess.
So, what’s your “literature”? What’s the one thing, among all the small tasks you’re capable of, that truly offers you a chance at success, and allows you to earn your bread, no mincing of words required?
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
I have reworked the first part of the story with a few new elements about the characters and changed a few of the details of how the characters finish up in the shop before the policewoman makes her entrance.
This is part of the new first section is the one that involves Annalisa, and her boyfriend, Simmo:
Annalisa looked at the two men facing her.
Simmo, the boy on the floor, had told her that the shopkeeper would be a pushover, he was an old man who’d just hand over the drugs, rather than cause trouble for himself.
Where Simmo had discovered what the shopkeeper’s true vocation, dispensing drugs to the neighborhood addicts, she didn’t know, but it was not the first place like this they had visited.
She had always known Simmo had a problem, but he had assured her he had it under control. Until a month ago, when he had tried something new.
It had changed him.
The breaking point came earlier that day when, seeing how sick he was, she threatened to leave. It brought out the monster within him, and he threatened to kill her. Not long after he had changed into a whimpering child pleading with her to stay, that he hadn’t meant anything he’d said before.
All he needed was one more ‘score’ to get his ‘shit’ together, and he would do as she asked, and find help.
She believed him.
He said he knew a place not far from the apartment, a small shop where what he needed was available, and said he had the money.
That should have been the first sign he was not telling the truth because she had been funding his habit until her parents cut off the money supply. She suspected her father had put a private detective on to find her, had, and reported back, and rather than make a scene, just cut her off so she would have to come home or starve. Her father was no better than Simmo.
And, as soon as they stepped into the shop, Simmo pulled out the gun,
Instead of the shopkeeper cowered like Simmo said he would, he had laughed at them and told them to get out. Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed.
There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won.
That was just before the customer burst into the shop.
It had been shortly before closing time. Simmo had said there would be no one else around.
Wrong again.
Now she had another problem to deal with, a man who was clearly as scared shitless as she was.
This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.
She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. There was a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth and Simmo was making strange sounds like he was choking.
Any other time she might have been concerned, but the hard reality of it was, Simmo was never going to change. She was only surprised at the fact it took so long for her to realize it.
As for the man standing in front of her, she was safe from the shopkeeper with him around, so he would have to stay.
“No. Stay.”
Another glance at the shopkeeper told her she had made the right decision, his expression said it all. Gun or no gun, the moment she was alone with him, he would kill her.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
Two events happened simultaneously.
The door opened, a figure dressed in black appears and Jennifer grabbed her from behind and took her weapon then shoved her to the ground in the middle of the room, at the same time the USBs exploded in the microwave oven.
I went over to the figure and removed the balaclava, whilst Jennifer closed the door after a quick glance outside.
It was Jan. Why wasn’t I surprised.
“Just whose side are you on,” she said, grimacing, and holding her shoulder after it hit the floor very hard.
“You’re lucky it was Jennifer. If it had been me, I might have strangled you by accident. Why are you here?”
“The same as you?”
“No, in this flat. I never told you anything about Jo.”
Jan looked over at the other woman sitting up against the wall, not exactly looking too well now. She would need an ambulance soon. Jan, probably sooner.
“It might have prevented this if you had. It’s probably the only reason why you’re still alive, we needed you to lead us to her. That’s Anna, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And the data drives?”
“Kind of destroyed, which is where such information should end up.”
“It was not yours to do that.”
“No. But left in the hands of people like you, where would it end up? I’m sorry, but with all the lies and deception going on, I couldn’t trust anyone to do the right thing.”
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen. Private number. No prizes for guessing who.
“Dobbin?”
“What is going on in there?”
“Target practice. Want to come and join the fun?”
“Is Jan alright?”
“She’ll live for now, but she is going to need medical assistance soon. It’s up to you.”
“I’m coming up?”
“If you bring anyone else, they’re dead.” I hung up.
I went over to the microwave, took out the remnants of the drives and flushed them down the toilet. Just in case.
When I came back there was a knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” I said to Jennifer. “But if there is anyone else, shoot them.
Gun ready, I opened the door. He had his hands where I could see them. “Come in and join the fun.”
Jennifer had him covered, just in case.
I closed the door.
Dobbin looked at Anna. He knew who she was.
“O’Connell is next door, dead. Did Jan shoot him?”
“Hello, I’m in the room, Sam. I did not.”
“Why do I find that hard to believe?”
“You have this all wrong, Sam. We are not the bad guys,” Dobbin said.
“Well, if you are, and you’re lying, which is about all you have done since I first met you, you won’t be. The USBs have been destroyed.”
Of course, in that instant, I realised that I may have been played again. Anna had given up the location too easily, despite the threats of bodily harm, which if push came to shove, I might not have followed through on. And if Anna surmised that, what was to stop her from having decoys just in case she was found? Come to think of it, she didn’t seem very disappointed when I destroyed them.
A woman capable of torturing and murder was capable of anything, and she had proven herself very capable so far.
And, worse, Dobbin didn’t seem too upset at the news.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 